


A Heart of Wood

by ClassicalOboist



Category: Javtine, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, F/M, Javert gets confused, and a lot of other emotions, and angry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 19:58:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1954299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClassicalOboist/pseuds/ClassicalOboist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fantine seemed to radiate a sort of light that attracted the two men to her bedside- they came from opposite ends of the spectrum, yet met in the middle around around her, locked in a silent agreement. Though, long after the mayor had left the hospital,  Javert would stay; eyes drooping with exhaustion, to be attributed to lack of sleep, and misty with an emotion that was akin to - concern? Worry? If it was any feeling other than fatigue, he would not dare admit it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Heart of Wood

The streets in the slums of Paris came alive at night. The alleyways, uninhabited by day, became a buzz of frantic activity. Dark, mysterious men in patchwork greatcoats and frayed tophats stood at street corners; quick hands adept at the art of pickpocketing plunged into their own pockets. Sharp eyes darted back and forth, scanning the poorly-lit streets, as if searching for those who would rat them out. Women sat in nooks in the dark alleyways, bosoms exposed through their scant dresses under the light of the midsummer moon.   
An equally dark figure stood nearby, positioned in an inconspicuous place in the street. He knew this activity well, for he himself had grown up around such atrocities of the night, and it was his job now to keep it regulated. 

  
His name was Inspector Javert. The very name sent a chill down the spines of even the toughest criminals, and with good reason. He was tall and imposing, with a dark greatcoat under which he hid his cane, which he could wield with enough power to fatally harm, if he so wished. Though Javert was not a particularly violent man.

   
His cravat, fastidiously tied, nearly hid his mouth which was always downturned, and his wide-rimmed top hat covered his brow, exposing only sharp, trained eyes that burned with a cold intensity. Large, well-trimmed sideburns seemed to give his face even more cover, menacing in of themselves. Deep lines creased this face, which emanated overall discontent with the world.

  
Javert blended in well with this environment, as it was all he had known until he was twenty-one years of age. This was, perhaps, why he was assigned this post. This area was - as the rest of the Prefecture knew - one of the most dangerous areas to regulate. The spot near the docks where he was situated was particularly treacherous, for it was harder to hear the cries of victims, and harder to find their bodies.  
The Inspector, however, was not on duty to find bodies that night. Though he had no problem in handling the bodies themselves, he disliked rummaging through the trash of the street. That night, the inspector was observant, silently eyeing suspicious persons, making Paris safe - a dog keeping close watch to protect his master. 

  
And who was this dog’s master? The Prefect, and Paris itself. Javert knew he should feel honoured to be given such a position, to be loyal to the city which had given him a fair chance in life. He could not help shake the feeling, either, that he was only part of the Prefecture because of his usefulness, not for his unpleasantness, though with Javert, one could not have one without the other. Yes, to guard Paris, and keep it safe; that was the duty of this dog.

  
Without warning, a shriek pierced the night air, so sharp that it seemed to silence even the gulls, which flocked nearby. It was that of a woman. And, although it sounded horrendous, it seemed to be more so a cry of surprise than that of pain. Spending as much time as he did in these slums, he became acquainted with the different characteristics of screams, thus determining the urgency. Nonetheless, the unexpected sound set Javert into action. His strong legs had no trouble closing the distance between himself and the source of the scream, which was then followed by loud, vulgar shouting. His boots clicked on the hard cobblestone underfoot, announcing his arrival.

  
When he had made it to the scene, he identified a man and a woman, surrounded by others. A bourgeois, simply passing through, and a prostitute, no doubt. The man glanced at Javert, blood rolling down the side of his face; a visage which, Javert knew, had been gouged by the nails of a woman. The inspector gave a curt, flat nod and took the prostitute by the shoulders. 

  
“Follow me,” he growled, paying the man no more notice. It mattered not what his claim was, nor what was hers. Javert had more than enough evidence to convict her for disturbance of the peace. He had seen the marks that the wretched prostitute had left on the man’s face. It needed no reason; the woman appeared unharmed. 

  
Javert led the woman inside the police station, and closed the door. She fell to the ground, looking broken and defeated. The inspector himself sat down to write, ignoring her. After a while, Javert announced that the woman were to have six months in prison.

  
At this, she protested, her rasping voice pleading. She began, between fits of coughing, to convince the inspector about her daughter; how the girl was staying with innkeepers, whom she had to pay.  
It was not that Javert did not believe her arguments, he merely did not care. She had broken the law, committed a crime, and that was that. He repeated his afore statement, and the woman’s shoulder’s slumped.  
From out of the shadows, appeared the mayor of Montreuil sur Mer. He had entered earlier during the woman’s pleas, when Javert had not been paying attention. A sound escaped the inspector’s throat inadvertently.

  
“Monsieur le Maire-” he said, trying to assert himself. The man before him was illuminated in the dim candlelight, his greying curls appearing as he removed his hat. The usually-sparkling eyes which contained endless patience and kindness, and which Javert had become so well-acquainted with were clouded with trouble. 

  
At the name, the woman spit in his face with a laugh. The laugh was terrible, filled with melancholy and rough with brandy. Javert started towards her, but the mayor held up his hand.

  
“Inspector, let this woman go free.” His voice was low and calm as he wiped the spit from his face, and there was something about it that willed him to obey. But how impossible! The prostitute had spit in the mayor’s face, and he still ordered to have her set free! 

  
“Monsieur le Maire,” Javert replied, keeping his voice stern, enunciated every word with distinction. The mayor said nothing more, but the woman’s voice rasped again. Once more, he was not listening, but this time, he was overcome with confusion, and was distraught. He had to obey the mayor, for he was Javert’s superior, but he also had to obey the law, for it was all he stood for. The law, was all he had. And to go against it! It was more than Javert could bear.

  
The inspector was snapped out of his thoughts as he felt the woman’s hand take his own and press it to her throat. It was burningly hot, but he pulled away quickly in disgust.

  
The prostitute was set free, and was about to leave, when Javert protested to the mayor. To obey him would be to disobey the law, but to obey the law would be to disobey him.  
When Monsieur Madeleine’s patience seemed to be wearing thin, he finally said, “Leave the room, Javert.”

  
Javert stood in shock for a moment, then bowed. To see such a ferocious man bow to one so gentle and soft spoken as the mayor was nearly frightening. It showed how much Javert respected -no, venerated- the mayor, no matter how seemingly-outlandish his claims were. As he was leaving, he heard Monsieur Madeleine announce that he was taking the woman to the hospital.

  
Javert headed back towards his home, a scowl on his face, and hatred burning inside him. It was not hate towards the mayor, nor the prostitute. Rather, it was towards himself, for he had dared question the mayor. Although he was still unhappy with the man’s words, he resented himself. Surely, Monsieur Madeleine had good reasons to keep this woman out of prison. He had said himself that witnesses told him that the man was the one at fault, for he had provoked her. 

  
Arriving at his house, Javert began to mutter to himself bitterly. To take his mind off of it, he assured himself that he would never have to see her again, thus, she wouldn’t remind him of his failures as a member under the Prefecture.

~

Javert did not know how he ended up walking towards the hospital, long strides making the trip shorter than it would have normally been. He still occasionally thought of what it would be like to have a horse, even though he knew that he would never have the means to afford one. It was not a thought that crossed his mind often. He forced himself to be content with whatever he had.

  
Approaching the entrance of the hospital, the morning was a blur. He had become compelled to dress and visit the woman that he had nearly arrested a week before. It had been a troubling week, his thoughts confused. The woman was ill- what should it matter? She was a prostitute, she was poor. She had no home, no husband, and no income, as long as she was confined to a bed. Javert was not one to feel pity. He should not feel pity. Any emotion that resembled sympathy, he thought had been kicked out of him at Toulon. 

Opening the door of the hospital and stepping inside, the inspector shuddered inwardly at the thought of Toulon. He only remembered it as such a terrible place. He knew that his mind was going to such dark places so that he no longer had to justify to himself why he had gone to see the woman. Fantine, as he had found out.

  
He knew that, most likely, the mayor would also be there to see her. Javert did not know how he felt about his doing so. It was none of the inspector’s business to judge the private life of Monsieur Madeleine; he knew that, at least, he appeared to be an honest, kind, and good man.

  
Javert’s boots resounded on the wooden stairs as he made his way up to where the sick were housed. It was surprisingly empty; Javert could tell immediately, for the beds were only separated by mere sheets, thin enough to see though. The inspector passed by the beds as silently as he could, his tall, large figure and bitter expression frightening the nursing sisters. They promptly moved out of his way, and did not dare to ask him any questions.

   
Javert’s watchful, almost-pensive gaze eventually fell upon the sleeping figure of Fantine. She tossed about in her sleep, which caused fits of coughing. Spatters of blood adorned either side of the once-white pillow, the sign of an incurable disease which he knew all too well. It was the same one which had killed his mother, back in prison, when he was a child. 

  
He sat in a chair, its small, wooden frame only just bearing his weight, and watched her silently, face emotionless. Once more, he asked himself why he came. The sight of Fantine had only succeeded in reminding him once more of his failures as an inspector. And even as he had left his flat that morning, he told himself that it was only to see how she was faring. Now, that he saw the illness was incurable, there was no more reason for him to be there. 

  
As he sat in the chair, his hand in a fist with his cheek resting against it, eyes pensive and assuming the posture of a man lost in thought, he was brought back to the present by the sound of footsteps. Javert heard the slight dragging of a foot, so faint that it was hardly noticeable, but the inspector noticed it nonetheless. It signified the arrival of the mayor.

  
Sure enough, the curtains were pulled back hesitantly to reveal that soft, kind face. His eyes landed on Fantine for the longest while, and he seemed oblivious to all else. After a few moments, his deep brown-green eyes lit up in surprise, and then a troubled confusion as they found Javert. 

  
“Inspector,” Monsieur Madeleine started, his voice firm, even though it was barely more than a whisper. “You are to obey my orders. This woman is free, and she shall not spend a day in prison.”

  
The mayor’s words struck Javert - the blow of a hand to a dog from its master. Monsieur Madeleine thought that he, Inspector Javert, would be dishonest! Would go against his word!

  
“I am not here to arrest her, monsieur,” Javert replied curtly, his voice low and gruff, louder than it should have been. This resulted in a gentle hushing from the mayor, which was almost comforting, seemingly relieving stress that he did not know he carried. 

  
Fantine turned once more, her coughing waking her. Her eyes opened and found Monsieur Madeleine. She raised a pale hand towards him weakly, murmuring incomprehensible words in her weary delusion. Javert did not dare move, for he remembered that the last time they had met, Javert was intent on throwing her in jail.

  
Monsieur Madeleine’s troubled gaze left Javert and his face broke into a comforting smile as he went closer to Fantine, taking her hand gently and saying soft, reassuring words. The woman’s eyes were filled with hope as he said words too soft for Javert to hear. Her sickly, flushed face became illuminated as the dying sunlight flooded through a nearby window.

  
The inspector tried to keep the awkwardness out of his being there for the tender moment between the two. He was unaccustomed to such emotions, and did not know how to handle them well. He wanted to leave, but he thought it best to stay still where he was. 

  
After a quarter of an hour, Fantine fell asleep once more, her face calm, a soft smile on her pale lips.

  
Javert released the breath he had held, unsure of why he had tried so hard to be silent. Javert was not one to listen to others, unless they were in authority. He looked at Monsieur Madeleine and they exchanged glances. Madeleine’s brow was furrowed, whether from the illness of Fantine or from Javert’s presence, it wasn’t clear. The lines on his face were not alien to the inspector; he had often seen such a look when the man was hunched over his desk, deeply involved in whatever task was before him.

  
“Inspector,” the mayor started slowly, as if thinking over his words carefully. “Why are you here?”

  
It was the question that Javert hoped he would not ask. The inspector, who had always been decisive in his actions, was lost just this once, and one of the men he respected most in the town called him out on it.  
Javert dipped his head in respect, lowering his eyes to the floor. “I-I do not know, Monsieur le Maire.” His voice lost the commanding edge which he had exerted over Fantine the week before. Inspector Javert was a different man before the mayor. He was perfectly honest in this. Not knowing was a horrible sensation to Javert, dread clenching his stomach tightly, and uncertanty clouding his thoughts. He knew he simply  _had_ to be there, by Fantine's side, and he knew not why.

   
Monsieur Madeleine looked away, as if deep in thought once more. His deep eyes were dark and pensive. “I see,” he nodded quietly. Javert could feel the man’s eyes over him, and he felt uneasy under the scrutiny of his gaze. “I believe it would be best if she did not see you, Inspector. She is quite distraught over her child, and I fear that her seeing you will be more than she can bear.”

  
Javert scowled into his cravat, the expression hidden from the mayor’s view. Madeleine was right, of course. Fantine was under far too much stress for a woman of her health as it was already. He agreed, but reluctantly. He felt as though everything he was doing was wrong in Monsieur Madeleine's eyes; and became displeased with himself.

  
“Monsieur Madeleine,” Javert said quietly, the words filled with respect. They were tinged, still, bitterly; like a bad taste after a sweet. He rose slowly as the mayor watched him walk out, eyes following the inspector to the staircase. The dog had been dismissed, for the second time. Javert would be back, however. Dogs were loyal to their masters more than the masters themselves ever asked for. It was their sense of duty that made them come back, time and time again.

~

Over the course of the next few days, Javert continued his duty to the mayor. Their conversations were short and curt, as usual, and the two only stated as much as needed. The inspector brought in his daily reports whilst Monsieur Madeleine usually sat quietly, listening and writing down notes. Javert visited the hospital, as well. He had gotten permission, at last, from Madeleine during a lighter time in one of their conversations. It took place as thus;

  
“Monsieur le Maire, I request permission from yourself to be able to watch the faltering health of the hospitalized prostitute, Fantine.” Javert stood erect, a terrifying figure. His cold eyes scanned those of Monsieur Madeleine, which were soft and gentle, as they always were. Too much love, too much pity, Javert had always thought. Perhaps, this one time, it would serve useful.

  
The mayor paused, the ghost of a grin on his lips. “But Inspector,” he said calmly, “you must trust that the nursing sisters know what they are doing. I am sure that her condition will improve.”

  
“Monsieur le maire-! I have seen such illnesses in my youth. It is incurable.” Javert’s impatience was building, but he forced his voice down to a respectful level. He bowed his head, gazing down at his boots.

“Monsieur,” he started again, “you know that I do not ask for anything. I appreciate whatever I earn as if it were given to me. I feel that, perhaps I have- wronged this woman. It is my duty to see her until her last day on this earth.”

  
Monsieur Madeleine stood from his desk, walking slowly towards Javert. “Your duty, is to me, Inspector.” The man’s eyes flicked from Javert’s furrowed brow, to his hands fiddling with his cane, down to his boots, where his toes tapped lightly. To see this formidable man at such an exposed state was terrible; for it was clear that the inspector felt obligated to visit the poor, dying woman. 

  
Madeleine took in a deep breath, and looked as if he were about to say something, then closed his mouth once more. He turned to his desk, back facing Javert. “Very well. I shall grant you permission to see the woman Fantine. However, you must take utmost care; she is in a weakened, fragile state. Also,” he turned his head back towards the inspector, “do not forget that you are also still forbidden to arrest her.”  
Javert was about to say something, but decided that it was best to keep silent. It was right for the mayor to assume that he still had intentions to arrest Fantine- Javert was known as one of the most ruthless members of the Prefecture. Javert bowed deeply. “I thank Monsieur le Maire for his time, and I shall take my leave.”

  
Monsieur Madeleine nodded, and Javert turned and left promptly. He failed to look behind him, and if he had, he would have sen Monsieur Madeleine's brow furrow in distraught confusion. The mayor was concerned that the visits to Fantine's bedside would hinder the time which Javert spent on duty, but quickly shook the thought away, knowing that the inspector was a hard working man; one of the hardest-working in the Prefecture.

~

At the hospital, most of Javert’s time was spent watching Fantine silently. Many thoughts went through his head during this time. Javert hated thinking, and so this troubled him.

  
His thoughts, at first, were self-degrading. Fantine was a prostitute. She had no hair, and was missing her teeth. She was a woman of the lowest class, a woman whom Javert should have been spending no time around, unless it was to arrest them. She was ugly, too- but it wasn’t as if Javert couldn’t say the same. His dark skin, bushy, black sideburns and large nose, matched with cold eyes which pierced the very hearts of criminals were not appealing features. Javert often used to be accused of being vain. Now, he was simply meticulous. He knew that he was ugly, and the best he could do was at least keep himself looking presentable. His worn, black greatcoat showed signs of stitching by his own hand, his top hat similarly. Javert had no intention of buying nor the means to buy new clothing; thus, he kept the holes sewn, and that was that. Javert would always be ugly.

  
Fantine, however, seemed to be a different story to Javert. When he wasn’t thinking about how much of a fool he was, his mind turned to what kind of person he thought Fantine was before she had fallen into the gutter. She seemed to have a fighting spirit, with a happy demeanour. The woman’s delirious spiels were indicative enough of the woman she was before. She would go into great length to talk about her linens, of which she was quite proud. She had mentioned her friends many times, and further, her lover, Tholomyes. The thought skirted through his mind a couple of times; that if Fantine had been well, perhaps, he might have loved her. In a time that was better, kinder. He watched her silently, the corners of his mouth downturned. He watched for worsening of her illness - and for what? There would be nothing Javert could do about it, yet he stayed nonetheless. At night, she would often wake, troubled, hands running across her short hair.

  
“My hair! My hair! Where is it?” She would cry. Her eyes were wide, filled with fear. It was such nearly every night. Her actions were monotonous, yet filled with the same emotion as the time before. On a few occasions, she grabbed a hairbrush from the nightstand and frantically tried to brush long hair that was not there. 

  
One night, it became too much for Javert to bear. There was only so much pain, agony and suffering that a man could take. Against his better judgement, he stood up slowly from his chair, and walked over to the woman, placing his large, rough hands on her delicate shoulders. His hands were not made to comfort. They existed only to wield a cudgel and place cuffs over the wrists of criminals. Placing them on the fragile woman, it felt as though she were about to break. Her pale, trembling frame ceased for a moment, terrified eyes meeting those of the inspector.

  
“Fantine,” Javert said in a low voice, keeping his face unreadable. The name had taken more time to say than he had originally wanted. It was heavy and filled with meaning, instead of dismissed as the name of a whore. In front of Monsieur Madeleine, the name rolled off of his tongue- he nearly spat it with disgust. Yet now, it was gentle, hesitant; unsure. “Your hair… will be back soon.” Javert struggled, for one of the few times in his life, to find words. They were stupid coming out of his mouth, he knew; a mouth that had only before spat words of contempt. There was not much more he could say to the delusional woman; she had an incurable decease, and would die inevitably. They all would, Javert justified to himself. He was no different than she in this respect. It was merely that her time would be shorter. 

  
Fantine, so ill was she, that she did not recognize the face of the inspector. “Where h-has it gone, monsieur? Will… will you show me? Please, monsieur! I must sell it, to get money for my daughter!” Her voice was filled with desperation and urgency, unlike anything Javert had heard before. Women condemned to death did not even plead in such a passion. The words tore at Javert's heart.

  
Javert swallowed, his throat clenched tightly. The woman’s love for her daughter was admirable, he was forced to admit. It made him wonder, suddenly, if his own mother had felt the same way for him. Javert knew that she was a prostitute whilst in prison; despite his young age at the time, he remembered it well.

  
The inspector never thought much of his parents. His father, he never cared for. Yet his mother- he remembered seeing kindness in her eyes, the same way Fantine’s eyes lit up when she mentioned her daughter, Cosette. Javert learned that name well. Cosette was a word that the sickly woman often uttered in her sleep.

  
He gently placed her back down on the bed, her shivering body covered in a cold sweat. Glancing around to make sure no one was in earshot, he hushed her softly, as awkward as a guard-dog comforting an injured pup.

  
“Rest, Fantine. Cease worrying - it will make your time here longer.” Javert was a man of absolute, blunt honestly. Growing up on the streets, he knew no words of comfort, and thus replaced them by the truth. He saw hopeful words of reassurance as lies. In his mind, they were despicable falsities, and lies that induced false hope were terrible. Fantine coughed loudly, and Javert could only watch silently as droplets of blood fell to the pillow. He stood still and erect, his stone-cold façade quivering. When the woman was finally asleep, he made certain that she was well, and in good hands, then ducked out of the room and left, heavy, sure footsteps echoing throughout the dark hospital.

~

Javert was overcome with paperwork. More and more often, he had held off the time which he had usually saved for filling reports, which was, in turn, spent with Fantine at the hospital. When it became increasingly busy, Javert would take reports to the hospital, completing them there. The inspector even went so far as to request a nightstand from an unoccupied bedroom to be brought in for him to use. The scratching of his quill in the ever-present darkness of Fantine’s room seemed to ease the stress. The woman herself was in a great deal of pain, but was always happy to see Javert. Her weak, fatigued smile upon his entrance eventually got to him, striking a soft spot that he had once thought was gone from him completely. In reality, it had merely been hidden away, lost under the thoughts of duty. After a while, Javert began to return her smile.

  
The smile itself was terrible; akin to the snarl of a dog, exposing his teeth. Javert did smile on other occasions, but it was mostly out of determination or by his own sarcastic wit. To smile out of kindness was foreign to Javert, and it was certainly something to be practiced. The inspector would never admit that most nights, he would go home and practice his smile in the mirror, frightening and almost disturbing. To see such a smile on a terrible face was as out of place as a guard-dog rolling over to expose his stomach. Of course, Javert looked ridiculous, but the sickly woman did not mind, far too caught up in troubled thoughts of her daughter.

  
The mayor also visited on occasion, but not as often as he. The times when they did meet in the hospital room were not awkward, though most of the visit was spent in silence. Fantine seemed to radiate a sort of light that attracted the two men to her bedside- they came from opposite ends of the spectrum, yet met in the middle around around her, locked in a silent agreement. Though, long after the mayor had left the hospital, Javert would stay; eyes drooping with exhaustion, to be attributed to lack of sleep, and misty with an emotion that was akin to - concern? Worry? If it was any feeling other than fatigue, he would not dare admit it. 

  
As the morning birds began to wake with the sun, soft, orange light streamed through the half-closed blinds in Fantine's room. As he felt the warmth of the sun hit his skin , Javert started to write. It was a report, one that would have otherwise been routine, were it not pertaining to his suspicions about the mayor. Fantine was in an abnormally fitful slumber, and, as Javert thought, her condition had worsened. Her pillow, which had been replaced just the night before, was now ruined; covered in blotches of deep crimson.

  
Javert cringed at each wretched sound the woman made; he hated to see Fantine suffer for such a long amount of time. In a sense, the nurses were cruel, the thought, for trying to keep her alive any longer. It was the fault of Monsieur Madeleine, as well, for keeping her in the hospital.

  
Despite all this, it was impossible for Javert to contradict the mayor once more. He could do nothing but watch Fantine die; the bright light slowly ebbing away. At first, he was ashamed with himself for compared the woman to anything other than the dirt beneath his feet, but had always refused to see her as such, knowing that if it was anyone else, he would have. It occurred to Javert that, if it were any other beggar or prostitute, ill in the hospital, he would not have cared in the slightest. How he knew this, he wasn't sure, but felt that it was how things were. 

  
The inspector stood slowly from his chair, the candle on his desk flickering over his own troubled face, brow furrowed in concern. He walked closer to Fantine and removed his handkerchief from the pocket of his shirt, slowly bringing it to the woman’s face. He dabbed the sweat delicately from her forehead, breaths deep and controlled. He folded the handkerchief, and moved down to her chin, wiping the blood away. He did this with one hand, while with the other, he steadied her trembling shoulders.

  
It was now that Javert noticed his racing heart, and the sweat forming on his palms. He was unsure of what he was feeling, and his thoughts became clouded with confusion.

  
Dabbing the blood away, he pocketed the kerchief, and watched her for a moment, murmuring nonsense in a low tone. It was something that he did often to himself- most times, he was running over reports and arrests, and information that he should remember. In this particular bout of muttering, he mentioned Monsieur Madeleine’s name often, which seemed to calm and soothe Fantine, even though he mentioned denouncing the man.

  
When he was certain that Fantine was in too deep a slumber to feel any severe pain, he placed a kiss to her burning forehead. 

  
Javert then turned back to his chair in silence, picking up his greatcoat and placing it over his shoulders. He looked at a sleeve in disdain as he realized that he had singed it somehow. Shaking his head, he collected his papers and extinguished the flame, turning back once more to look at Fantine. Just in being there, her grace evident in the way she held herself, even in illness and in sleep, Fantine would have melted a heart of stone; but Javert’s heart was that of wood, and she had succeeded in setting it aflame.

~

One morning, Javert entered the hospital in his usual fashion. Fantine was already awake, her eyes bright, and her complexion slightly less pale. She smiled when she saw Javert; a smile that lacked two teeth. Javert found it charming nonetheless.

  
“Monsieur Javert! Monsieur!” Fantine’s voice was rasping and weak, yet filled with excitement. Javert rushed over to her, hands prepared to hold the woman, lest she fainted.  
“What is it?” he asked, his tone filled with urgency.

  
“My daughter- Monsieur le Maire, oh, he’s such a good man. Monsieur Javert, the mayor told me that Cosette is on her way to see me!” Her body shook with the exertion, and Javert attempted to smile as gently as possible.

  
“You must remain calm, Fantine. Cosette would not want to see you unwell.” Javert’s voice was deep, and should have been frightening, but it did not faze Fantine.

  
She nodded, her expression suddenly solemn. She looked away, trying to stifle a cough. Javert placed his warm hand to her chilled back, which released the cough, spattering herself, as well as Javert, with blood.   
“It-it hurts, Javert…” Fantine gasped weakly. Under any other circumstances, Javert would have corrected anyone who did not address him by his title. But he assumed now that she was so near death, titles did not matter any longer. To correct her would be to correct an angel; for Monsieur Madeleine had compared her to one as such. Javert was not a religious man, but not even he could deny the light that seemed to emanate from the woman. 

  
“Can you… can you make it stop?” Her deep blue eyes were pleading. She appeared exhausted, and rightfully so. Her lips, he knew, were paled and sickly, but appeared crimson under the bloodstains which graced them. Her cheeks were stained with the tracks of tears long-ago dried, and her eyes were red and sore. Javert remembered that same defeated look in the face of his mother; it was the expression of one who was tired of hurting, finished will illness, and on the brink of giving up. But as long as there remained a possibility of Fantine being able to see her daughter once more, she would not give up.

  
So caught up was he in her appearance, Javert barely heard her plea. “I-” Javert began to formed a sentence, but it was quickly cut off- taken back in to be re-thought. His hand found her cheek and he caressed it gently, which he found odd to himself, as he had never been fond of touching or being touched. It seemed to be an instinct, which had been stowed away deep inside of him.

  
“There is nothing I can do, Fantine.” Javert found his own voice wavering. “I wish-” Javert was not one to wish, and so these words were strange, coming from his mouth. “I wish that… that your suffering will be over soon.” It did not mean necessarily that Javert wanted her to die soon; rather, his mind raced frantically for any other ways in which Fantine would survive. He did not find any. 

  
Fantine smiled. “But of course! I shall be completely well once I see my Cosette.” 

  
Javert blinked, looking somewhat crestfallen. Her daughter; the most important person in the world to Fantine. He took his hand away from her face, still looking into her eyes.

  
It was upsetting to Javert that she placed so much hope upon the arrival of the girl. It was not certain that Cosette would arrive, even though the mayor said that he would make sure that she did. Even if Cosette were to visit Fantine, it was possible that the woman could become overwhelmed- they joy and happiness too much for her weakened state. What would happen, then, if Cosette were to see her mother die?  
Javert knew what it was like to see his mother die. Through all the horrific things that had happened during his lifetime; to see her eyes glaze over, to feel her heart stop beating and her skin turn cold - that was something that one never forgot.

  
“We shall see, then. Perhaps Monsieur Madeleine will be true to his word.” Javert replied, standing and preparing to leave. He had glanced at the clock in the corner, and saw that his shift was starting soon. As much as Javert wanted to stay with the woman who was nearing her final days, as well as she looked, he had a duty to uphold.

  
Suddenly, he felt a chill clasp around his hand. It was Fantine, who had reached out, her palms chilled and sweaty, making him pause. His heart raced once more at the touch. Javert scolded himself for being so incredibly stupid; if his feelings for her got in the way of his duty, what would be thought of him-?  

  
“Oh, but he will be, Javert! He is a good, honest man. I am sure of it!” Her chest heaved with the effort of breathing. “But- are you going so soon? I would appreciate it if you stayed a while.”

  
The inspector turned back to look at Fantine, and suddenly wondered if she felt the same way as he. Javert shook his head. “I should- I must report to Monsieur le Préfet,” he replied.

  
There was a silence between the two, before Fantine’s voice sounded, barely more than a whisper.

  
“Can you, then, at least- at least grant me a kiss before you go?” The question echoed in the silence, and Javert knew not what to think. 

  
Javert’s heart thudded in his chest. An odd tingling sensation found its way to his stomach. A kiss? From one as ugly as he? To a woman such as Fantine? At least her question confirmed his thoughts - his fears. He was in love with Fantine and she was in love with him. But what a ridiculous notion! Inspector Javert, ruthless, merciless police spy; daunting and intimidating- to feel an emotion as weak as love! And Fantine; the once-pretty prostitute, with blood in her mouth and even more in her lungs, and she herself as fragile as glass.

  
“I… couldn’t,” Javert shook his head. His refusal was more so out of concern for her well-being than anything else. The last thing Javert wanted to do was harm Fantine further. If he were to kiss her, then it would be far more difficult for her to breathe, meaning it could be potentially dangerous if he did so.

  
“Wh-why- I’m sorry, Inspector.” Fantine’s apology was breathy and startled, and an overwhelming sadness that Javert had not expected welled up inside of her, pouring out into his words and her actions. “Forgive me. I thought that you felt the same way.” The woman began to choke back sobs, a sound that almost made Javert tear up. He turned back to face her, brow creased in worry. 

  
“Fantine… I do- love you. I do. But I can’t kiss you, not now. I don’t want to harm you.” He let go of her hands that he never remembered holding, his thoughts muddled and confused. The words were harder for him to say than he had originally thought. She seemed to understand, nodding silently, but the wretched woman still could not hold back. Javert resolved to holding her closely, delicately wrapping his large, rough, calloused hands around her waist. She shuddered somewhat at the touch; Javert knew that Fantine was used to hands as rough as his own - those of sailors passing through from the docks. Javert moved slowly, gently bringing her closed, as she eased into the contact, releasing her bated breath. "I love you," Javert repeated softly, this time with conviction. He closed his eyes, keeping the woman in his arms until she was asleep. When he herd her laboured breathing slow, he placed her back on to the bed and backed out silently.

A few days later, Javert was summoned to a trial to identify a man who was caught, whom was believed to be Jean Valjean. Throughout the trial, Javert sat, swallowing hard. His letter he had sent to the Prefect was replied to, and the response stated that Javert was a fool for thinking that the mayor of Montreuil sur Mer was an old galley slave.

  
Of course, they were right. Regretfully, he saw that now. The man who had been going under the name of Champmathieu was identified by three convicts who had known Jean Valjean well. Javert had to admit, also, that the man did indeed resemble Valjean.

   
During his time in court, his thoughts also drifted to Fantine, against his will. He could not help but think of her, alone - no, not alone. It was Tuesday. Monsieur Madeleine would be at the hospital, taking care of her. This thought put him at ease. The mayor was indeed a kind man; there was absolutely no denying it. Many called him a saint; he also went by the name of Father Madeleine. 

  
He sat through the trial, attempting to remain as focused as possible. When it had finished, Javert rode back to Montreuil sur Mer in silence. The thought hit him suddenly; he had denounced the mayor to the Prefect. He would have to be punished. To lose his position in the Prefecture, one of the few things which Javert could call his own, would be difficult. But it was what he had to live with for being so foolish, and convicting a man with little to no evidence. Expression grim, he arrived at the mayor’s office immediately.

~

Javert left the office, shaken. The mayor had been far too kind, he knew. Javert had requested to be dismissed based on his actions, and had even explained the story in explicit detail. He explained how Jean could become Champ, and how he denounced Monsieur Madeleine. The man had only listened carefully, face oddly pale, but Javert had paid no attention to that. The inspector was rarely shaken, yet the mayor’s infinite generousity and that he described Javert’s failings as ‘a minor sin, at most’ had rendered him speechless. It had left him angry; at the mayor for being so merciful, and himself for being such a fool.

  
He now stood outside of the door, paled himself, yet relieved to still have a job. 

  
The very next place Javert went was to the hospital. He had not seen Fantine since he had denied her a kiss, and for that, he felt terrible.

  
When he entered her room, her eyes were red and swollen - she had been crying recently. Though, when she saw Javert, she perked up momentarily.

  
“Oh, Javert! Where have you been? It’s been so long… I-I thought you were never coming back.” Small, frail hands were clutched to her bosom, and her shoulders - so often slumped - were almost in good posture, given her state.

  
Javert couldn’t help but let a small smile cross his face. “It has only been a few days, Fantine,” he replied gently. “And I will always come back.” Feeling the sentence inadequate, he added; “I promise.”  
The inspector’s promise was true - when he said something would be done, it was done, at all costs. 

  
“I’m feeling much better now. Monsieur Madeleine is sending for my child again. Those Thénardiers… they can be quite caring people. So considerate. But perhaps they care too much. Oh, but how wonderful it is to see you again!” She held out her arms for a hug from Javert, which he accepted as gently as possible.

  
The hug was an odd gesture. To wrap one’s arms around another human to show kindness, appreciation and affection was strange, especially to Javert. The inspector had never known love, not in this manner. He had never been hugged, not even by his own mother. But the man was not oblivious to the world; in fact, it was the contrary. As a child, he observed people closely, watching their actions. The hug was one of those that he had seen, and had wanted to try someday.

  
He here he was, embracing Fantine, his breath calm and forcefully steady.

  
“I’m sorry for leaving without warning,” he said softly. “I’ll try not to let it happen again.”

  
Those few words were enough for Fantine, who placed a kiss on his cheek, her delicate lips brushing the skin just above his sideburns.

  
Javert blushed, but his skin was too dark for it to be noticeable, for which he was glad. He relished the moment for as long as possible, before Fantine pulled away, coughing harshly.   
He comforted her in the best way he knew how; caressing her back gently as coughs wracked her body, causing her to shiver. He brought her closer, not minding that blood dripped from her chin and on to his shoulder. “Rest, now, Fantine. For me.” 

  
Fantine obeyed, pulling away. Javert found it fascinating that Fantine, having been at the bottom, in the gutter, ruined by men, could trust the very man who nearly arrested her. 

  
Javert shared this experience with her, then, being in the gutter. He knew the suffering that the woman had went through on the streets. He had seen it all. Men could be vicious creatures, hungry animals. Though he didn't believe it himself, Javert wanted to try to show Fantine, somehow, that there was still good in the word. 

When the woman had finally closed her eyes, Javert could sense that her time was near. No longer was Fantine waking up from fitful dreams with pained cries; she seemed far too exhausted to do so. She had lost her appetite, and was therefore losing weight frightfully fast. Her already-prominent bones were ever more pronounced, day by day. Javert had desperately tried to get Fantine to eat, but she refused every morsel. He could only imagine the terrible agony which the woman felt. To have the illness she had; to feel as if one were coughing up their very insides, purging their body of their own blood, and to have terrible loneliness, missing their daughter dearly - such was the life of Fantine. 

Standing with his head bowed by her bedside, the inspector did not pray. Rather, he was silent, respectful; he appreciated the time that they had had together. He knew that the woman's days were numbered, therefore he treated every visit as if it were his last.

Javert knew the touch of death well; he could see it in her eyes, could feel it in her pulse. To feel skin grow cold was terrible, but Javert could not forget the feeling. He could not help but think, either, that the situation was all too familiar. To lose someone he loved and held dear - such was the fate of this man. The only two women whom he had ever loved, Fantine and his mother, were to be taken away from him, forever. Javert used to pray - he used to think that perhaps Heaven was real, and that he would get a chance to see his mother again, but after the horrors of the street, and hope that he had once had was crushed.

Leaning down towards the resting woman, Javert placed a kiss to her brow. Instead of leaving that night, he instead found his way over to the desk, falling asleep in the chair whilst watching her, as the morning sunlight streamed through the half-closed blinds of her room. At least, for now, Javert had every reason to be thankful. Despite denouncing the mayor, he still had his job, and Fantine was still there, with him. He closed his eyes with a smile on his face.

~

He had been right all along. Monsieur Madeleine was the convict Jean Valjean. He had heard the news when the letter arrived to him early that morning from the Prefect. Madeleine - Valjean -, had traveled to where Champmathieu was being tried, where he had proven that he was the man in question. The Prefect had sent his apologies to Javert, and told him in the letter that he were to be moved to Paris, where the pay would be substantially more. Substantially, in the eyes of an inspector. 

When Javert read this, however, instead of being delighted, terror coursed through him. To be brought to Paris would mean to be taken away from Fantine - an idea which was difficult for him to process. Despite his fears, he wrote a calm letter to the Prefect requesting to stay for extra time, as he had unfinished cases which he was working on.

Which wasn't false in the least. There were murders and robberies where the suspects had escaped, and Javert still had to find. Now, there was Jean Valjean, whom Javert had found out had not been arrested at the trial. 

Javert knew that if was unlikely that the Prefect would accept his request to stay longer, therefore he made his way over to the hospital promptly, lest he be taken away from Fantine sooner than he would have liked. Not that he wished to be taken from her at all; he merely hoped that he could arrange proper goodbyes. He shrugged on his greatcoat and placed the top hat upon his head, taking the cane from its position against the wall, and exited his house with haste.

Javert arrived at the hospital nearly breathless. He had not stopped running from his doorstep all the way to the door of the hospital. The nursing sisters saw him and, after a few moments to let him catch his breath, he stepped inside, composed once more.

The façade that he was generally so good at keeping fell away as he saw Fantine, her breath coming in weak, shaky gasps. More blood than Javert wanted to see was pooled on either side of her pillow, running down and staining her shoulders.

"Fantine..." Javert started, his voice barely a whisper. The woman turned to him, eyes glazing over, with a bloody, toothless smile.

"Monsieur Javert..." she rasped, her breath wheezing, "Monsieur Madeleine shall go and fetch my child." She looked up, and he followed her gaze, until he saw Valjean, standing above him with a paper in his hands and a terrified expression on his face. He had not noticed him before, so distraught was he.

"Javert, have mercy," Valjean begged. "This woman's child is suffering. Give me three days, and I shall return to you, no questions asked." He had come around to Javert's side of the bed where the inspector was kneeling. At this he stood, and gave a terrible, pained laugh.

"It's  _Inspector_ to you, Valjean." Any respect that Javert had had for the mayor was almost completely gone. He grasped the man's collar. "There was never a Monsieur Madeleine to begin with.  There was only a thief, a liar, a galley slave!" 

Fantine's eyes widened and she trembled further. Javert called for an officer to take Valjean away. He tried to protest, just for a moment, to at least say goodbye to the dying woman, but Javert would not permit it, and thus, the convict was taken away without seeing the woman again. He looked away. It pained him, to a certain extent, to see the man he had respected for long taken away in a mere moment. He steeled himself, however; Valjean was a con, and it was all he ever would be, and thus, Javert forced down the regret he felt building inside of him.

Fantine stared at Javert blankly, unable to process what was happening. "M-my child, is she here? Please... Javert-" Her plea was interrupted by a bout of coughing. Javert took her shoulders gently, looking into her eyes. He tried to push down the terror of losing Fantine and the excitement of catching Valjean. The mixture of the two emotions was terrible, and he did not know which one to feel. 

"Your child is not here, I'm afraid. It was just another of the scoundrel's lies." He tried to keep his voice soft, but he could feel Fantine's weak heart racing, and could see death on her face. It was a terrifying mask, one that pained him to see. It took all of his energy to keep his face austere, willing away tears.

"Then I shall die here?" Her voice asked the question as more of a statement, flat and accepting.  Javert nodded solemnly. 

"If I will soon be dead, then I want you to do it."

Javert's eyes widened, unsure if what he was hearing was correct. "P-pardon?"

"I-I want you to kiss me, Javert. I know I'm sick and ugly, but I love you. If-if I die in your embrace, then... perhaps the pain will be worth it." Her eyes were serious, yet sincere. She meant what she said, and it terrified Javert. But if it was her dying wish, he could no longer deny it. He slowly sat down on the edge of the bed, looking into her pleading eyes. Taking her hands, Javert nodded, bringing her up into a comfortable position in his arms.

He leaned forward hesitantly, pressing their lips together. It was slow, awkward and unpracticed; for Javert had never had experience in the domain of romance.  She returned the kiss with equal caution, something that Javert became painfully aware of as the taste of blood entered his mouth. Fantine led Javert in the kiss, as the passion intensified. Javert had never felt that way before; his head buzzed. She suppressed multiple painful fits of coughing, and Javert tried to comfort her by placing his hands on her back. 

As he was running out of breath, he tried to pull away, but Fantine only pulled him in deeper. He realized suddenly what she was trying to do. He wanted to say something, wanted to stop, but he knew that he couldn't. If he did, he would be letting her live and suffer for hours more. If he didn't, he would have been responsible for her death. Fantine's grasp, though weak, was desperate, as her body started to shake with exertion. He began to feel torn as his mind raced, and he was forced to make the decision. 

Javert had just started to feel faint when the pressure of the kiss had left his mouth. The chest pressed against his had stopped heaving and holding back bouts of coughing. Hands trembling, he removed his lips from Fantine's, and looked down at her with unspeakable distress. He looked into her glazed eyes; the eyes that would never again behold anything of this earth. He lifted a rough hand - a hand never made for love, - and closed her eyes to greet perpetual night. A tear slipped from Javert's eye as he placed her back on the bed with the utmost care. With dread, he felt the warmth escaping from her skin, and resolved to kep her in his embrace for as long as he could, never wanting it to completely leave her. Kneeling by the beside, he leading over, and rested his head on her now-still chest, utterly broken inside. Tears began to flow freely from his eyes, trailing their way down Fantine's pale cheek that would never feel the caress of one who cared for her ever again. 

Javert wept bitterly. Love had weakened him. It done this; made him heartbroken, pathetic, and reduced to tears. In this state, he was utterly useless. Javert had been ruined by love, thus he swore to never feel that way ever again. 

 

 


End file.
